


Christmas Eve at Grimmauld Place

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boggarts, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, Gen, HP: EWE, M/M, canon divergant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which the ancestral seat of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is a place for waifs and strays to call home.





	

**“FILTHY BEAST! HALF-BLOOD CUR! MY HOME DEFILED BY A MUDDY QUEE–”** Lupin’s well-practiced silencio cut Walburga Black off mid-insult, but she continued to gesticulate angrily from her tarnished frame.

Draco shivered in the dimly lit hallway of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, whether it was from the chill in the air, not knowing what was coming next or the pointed glare of his now-mute Great Aunt he couldn’t say. “Wait here a minute,” Lupin said to him kindly, flicking his wand to pull the curtain back across Walburga’s silenced portrait without a second glance before he stepped through a door, closing it tight behind him. The warm circle of light which had escaped the room as Lupin opened the door disappeared as quickly as it had arrived leaving Draco alone in the funereal hallway. He shuffled uncomfortably under the flickering sconces which danced shadows across the dusty wallpaper, but gave no heat leaving the hallway as cold as the December evening outside the door.

The muffled voices on the other side of the door – which Draco _knew_ could only be arguing over the best way to get rid of him – weren’t showing any signs of reaching a conclusion. He could only spend so long gnawing his cuticles and staring at his feet before the mottled blotches and cracks in his dragonhide boots reminded him of how far he’d fallen. They were once polished and perfect, now they can’t even keep his feet dry. Beyond the ugly troll-foot umbrella stand by the door and whorls of dust there’s nothing in the hallway to keep his attention; he tentatively stepped up to the shrouded portrait and pulled back the covering. Walburga opened her mouth to continue with her tirade, but paused just as quickly when she saw who was standing in front of her. She stared shrewdly at Draco, tilting her head this way and that, silently judging him. When she spoke, it wasn’t the screaming of a harridan Draco expected, but with assured authority, “You’re a Black.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, ma’am,” Draco confirmed, “my mother”.

“Narcissa’s boy, aren’t you?” Draco nodded as Walburga continued, “Fine woman, married into the Malfoys?” Draco nodded again, “Strong genes those Malfoys, I can see you take after your father.”

Another shiver swept over Draco, he knew what had caused this one. _Lucius’ son_. He dropped the curtain back across the portrait and grasped for the front door, his head swimming. He gulped down breath after breath, quicker and quicker, needing to get enough air to allow him to put his mask back on and cross the threshold to return to muggle London. Behind him a door opened a crack and a raised voice cut through Draco’s fog.

“Sirius, you don’t have a monopoly on shitty pureblood families.”

#

_“Books away,” Professor Lupin announced to his third year Slytherins as he entered the classroom stepping around the locked wardrobe in the middle of the floor, “wands out. Defence Against the Dark Arts is just that: defence. Book-reading is all very well but you need to be able to put it into practice.” Remus had already given the same lesson twice this week to other houses with much success and this one should, hopefully, be no different. “Boggarts are amortal,” he lectured, “when faced with a boggart it will take on the form of your worst fear. You cannot kill a boggart, but you can – and you will – defeat it. You’ll need a strong mind, good concentration and Riddikulus!” he punctuated the incantation with a flourishing hand movement. “Everyone!” Lupin instructed the class the class to practice, “Riddikulus.”_

_Once he was happy the class had an understanding of the the basic casting, Lupin had the Slytherins line up in front of the wardrobe and he opened it with an Alohomora. Theo stepped forward first and the boggart became an emaciated zombie, rotting flesh dripped from its body before Theo’s Riddikulus dressed it in full clown make-up and giant clown shoes. “Good, good,” Lupin encouraged as Draco pushed Crabbe forward next and the Chimaera’s bloody fangs were replaced by a set of wind-up false teeth. Pansy took over from Crabbe; she gave her giant millipede hot pink stilettos on every one of its two hundred pairs of legs. “Keep it up,” Lupin cheered as Draco stepped aside to let Daphne take her turn next as he joined Pansy at the back of the line to congratulate her choice of excellent footwear._

_After five or six more Riddikuluses, Theo was once again at the front of the queue, Lupin asked him to finish off the boggart and get it back in the wardrobe before he dismissed the class. “Draco,” Lupin called as the students made their way to their next classes, “can I speak with you a moment?”_

_Draco stopped and muttered something to Crabbe and Goyle about not waiting for him then turned to face his Professor. Lupin was gathering his things from his desk, but Draco made no move to go to him, so it was Lupin who closed the distance between them. “Draco, I noticed you didn’t take a turn with the boggart,” Lupin said with as little accusation in his voice as he could manage._

_“It’s just a boggart,” Draco replied haughtily, “it isn’t exactly challenging. Riddikulus!” he mocked, matched with a perfect wand movement. “Perhaps if boggarts posed a real threat I’d play along with these childish games.”_

_Remus simply nodded, pureblood blustering wasn’t new to him, he’d seen it before and – if he knew anything – he knew that cajoling from a professor wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. “Very well, Draco,” Lupin said, taking his leave, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t dawdle in the classroom; as experienced as you are, boggarts shouldn’t be taken on single-handedly.”_

_Remus heard the juttering yelp and was already running back into the classroom before he heard the thump of a body hitting the floor. Draco was cowering against the far wall of the room as his father stalked authoritatively towards him, wand raised. Remus immediately stepped between father and son; as Draco recoiled behind him Lucius shifted into a glowing white orb. With a muttered incantation and a flick of the wand, the orb turned into a cockroach before being thrown back into the wardrobe._

#

“Draco?” Lupin’s voice had lost the harsh edge it had when it had snapped at Sirius, “Let’s get you settled upstairs.” He gestured for Draco to follow him upstairs and after a moment Draco relented.

Lupin opened the door to a bedroom as dusty as the rest of the house, but held back and let Draco enter first, “I’ll just go get the first aid kit,” Lupin said as he motioned with his thumb to indicate it was further down the hallway, “then we can get you all patched up.” Draco sat down on the end of the bed and took in the overwhelmingly Slytherin colours of the room; despite everything, the greens and silvers still felt like home to him. Lupin returned quickly with a pair of pyjamas slung over the crook of his elbow and arms full of bottles and boxes which he dumped unceremoniously on the desk. He put the pyjamas on the bed and began to sort through the paraphernalia on the desk; with a few choice items picked out he sat down on the chair at the end of the bed facing Draco.

“Here,” Lupin pressed a small phial into Draco’s hands. Draco held the phial up to the light then gingerly unstoppered it and took a small sniff. “It’s okay,” Lupin reassured him, “it’s just a Calming Draught.” Draco re-stoppered the bottle and put it down on the bed beside him. Lupin gave a slight nod and dripped a few drops of Essence of Dittany onto a pad of gauze, “Draco, you can stay here as long as you want,” he said, “as long as you need.” Draco bit down on his bottom lip turning it even paler than it was, “I’m– We’re not going to make you stay, but you should. You’ll be safe here; we even have a house elf, he’s not much for civilised conversation but he makes a great shepherd’s pie.” Draco eased up on worrying his bottom lip, which Remus thought was a much as he could ask for. He reached up with the dittany-soaked gauze to dab at the deep gash across Draco’s left eyebrow and Draco jerked back from his hand; Lupin pulled back.

“I can do it myself,” Draco said shakily.

Lupin offered him the gauze, “Do you need a wand?”

“No,” Draco took the gauze and dabbed gently at his forehead, “I don’t need magic for this.”

#

_“You’re fifteen now Draco, you’re not a child,” Lucius paced across his study avoiding looking at his son. “You can’t act on your adolescent whims, this is your obligation, you are a Malfoy. One day you will be The Malfoy. What do you have to say?”_

_“Sorry, Father.”_

_Lucius stopped pacing and stood in front of his son, “Sorry, Father” he mimicked, “Sorry, Father‽ Do you think I want to hear such insincere apologies?”_

_“No, Father.”_

_“Ungrateful brat! Your mother’s made you soft. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”_

_Draco raised his head to meet his father’s eyes._

_“Sorry, Father.”_

_Draco could hear his father’s teeth gritting as Lucius crossed the room and sat in his leather wingback. At the click of Lucius’ fingers his newest house elf popped into existence by his elbow, “Ogdens, the twenty-five year old, Tookey.”_

_The elf quickly presented a snifter to Lucius, “Will Master be wanting anything else?”_

_“Tookey, tell me,” Lucius swirled his drink around in the glass and took a sip, “what happens when you don’t follow instructions?”_

_“Tookey gets punished, Master,” the elf replied uneasily._

_“My son has not followed my instructions, Tookey, he is no better than an elf,” Lucius addressed the elf, but stared directly at Draco. “He does not know punishment, show him.”_

_Tookey bowed deeply, “Yes, Master.” He summoned a cast iron poker from the fireplace and as it landed in his small wrinkled hand it began to glow red-hot. Draco bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop his jaw quivering and dug his fingernails into his palms. Tookey swung the poker back to get a strong swipe at his own belly._

_“No.”_

_Tookey froze, the glowing poker stopped in midair._

_“Draco is to be punished,” Lucius continued, “he needs to feel, not see.”_

_Tookey obeyed without hesitation and the red-hot poker slammed into Draco’s ribs. It burned through his shirt easily and despite willing himself not to, he gasped in pain and his hands shot from his sides to his torso to cover the burn. The second hit, from a now cold poker, was aimed at the same spot; Draco wasn’t quick enough to move and felt his pinkie finger break with the impact. He bit his cheek harder, he wouldn’t let himself cry, he wouldn’t give Lucius the satisfaction._

_Lucius did not watch. He stared into the dancing flames in the fireplace and sipped his whisky. When his glass was empty, he called out “Dismissed.” Tookey disapparated with a faint pop, Draco pulled himself to his full height and limped out of the study with every last ounce of his dignity._

_Alone in his bedroom behind the locked heavy oak door, Draco sat at his desk and pulled out the well-used box Dobby had left there years before. He grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of Skele-Gro straight from the bottle, then carefully bound his broken finger to the one next to it. He smeared a thick layer of salve over his burn, wincing as he felt it work into the skin, a bandage wrapped tightly around it kept the salve from smearing all over his clothes as he checked as best he could for broken ribs. There wasn’t enough bruise removal paste left in the tube to make any difference to the purple blooming across his chest and Draco resigned himself to days rather than the usual hours of healing._

#

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly, the words felt foreign on his tongue as Lupin rose to leave.

“You’re welcome,” Lupin replied. “Goodnight, Draco,” he said closing the door quietly behind him and returning to the drawing room downstairs.

The drawing room was warm but dark, the only light came from the fireplace and the gentle twinkling of the slightly dishevelled Christmas tree in front of the window. Sirius was sat in a battered leather armchair by the fire, a mug of ‘nog in his hand and a bottle of brandy at his feet. “I’ve put him in Regulus’ old room,” Remus said.

“He’ll be right at home in all the green and silver,” Sirius said, looking up from the spitting flames, his eyes soft and the slightest of smiles across his lips let Remus know their earlier spat was long forgotten. Remus swooped in for a quick kiss then moved to settle on the floor between Sirius’ feet where the room was warmest and rested his head on Sirius’ thigh. “‘Nog?” Sirius offered his mug, as his other hand twisted itself habitually in Remus’ hair, “Although, full disclosure, it’s about ninety percent brandy by now.” Given the brandy made the eggy concoction sound considerably more appealing, Remus took a sip and passed the mug back.

“It’s a very Prongs thing to do,” Sirius said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, where the crackling of the logs in the fireplace had been the only sound. Remus looked up at him, an eyebrow arched in question. “Taking in waifs and strays,” Sirius explained gesturing with his mug to the two of them.

“I’m hardly a waif,” Remus said, “but you, Pads, you are very much a stray,” he teased. “A vagrant mongrel. A unruly urchin, if you will. If Prongs had any sense he would’ve left you for the doxies.”

“But if he’d done that, Moons,” Sirius placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, “then where would we be?” Sirius took another sip of his mostly-brandy and passed the mug to Remus who took one of his own. His tone turned serious, “Where’d you find him?” 

#

_Sirius was right, the night had been a complete bust. Seedy werewolves in an even seedier pub had gathered on Christmas Eve not – as Dumbledore assured – to plot their next move but rather to have a quiet festive drink and, in one surprising case, swap gifts. He could have, Remus lamented, been sat in front of a roaring fire drinking Sirius’ third – and least unpalatable – attempt at ‘nog, but instead he was stuck in the corner of a booth sipping a pint of flat lager and nodding cordially at all the right times in a banal conversation about mutton. There was a pack of younger ‘wolves talking big at the bar, but Remus had quickly dismissed them as being all bark. An offer from someone to get the next round in gave Remus the excuse he needed to bid goodnight and see himself home._

_Outside a biting winter wind had started up and sleet was beginning to fall, it wouldn’t be a white Christmas, but a grey, slushy one. Remus pulled his coat tighter around him and burrowed his chin deeper into his threadbare scarf as he looked for a quiet spot to disapparate; there were no muggles around, but it wouldn’t do well for him if any ‘wolves were to spot him popping out of existence – there aren’t many wand-wielding werewolves and it would take little for even a runt to figure out who he was. The first side-street was too brightly lit, too overlooked, so he hurried onto the next as the cold night air nipped at his nose. As he drew closer he could hear the sounds of a fight: growls, grunts of pain and flesh pounding flesh; there was a hint of copper in the air and as he passed the end of the alleyway he felt the prickle of magic crackling; without forethought he turned to look. Between the flying punches and bared teeth Remus saw a familiar platinum blond head; Malfoy wasn’t fighting back, he was stood, back to the wall, resignedly taking the beating._

_Remus didn’t barrell into the fight wand ablaze, that’s never been his style. He cleared his throat, a noise which all bar one of the werewolves didn’t hear over the grunts of the beating. The one who did hear – a scrappy teen Remus recognised from the pub – alerted the others as Lupin drew himself to his full height, he had a head and fifteen years on each of them. The pack each took a step or two away from Malfoy, offering their prey in deference to the older ‘wolf. “Leave,” Lupin growled. The pack looked between Lupin and their leader who was attempting, though failing, to stare down Lupin – but, Lupin conceded, it was hard to look particularly threatening when you’re a clean-shaven werewolf._

_“Pretty boy’s ours,” the leader drawled as he took a step back towards Malfoy, “get your own, you old codg–” He was cut short by the flash of red light from Remus’ wand which hit him square in the chest. Remus stepped over the stupefied body, hauled Malfoy securely against his side and – with a viciously loud crack – apparated to the front step of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place._

#

“Dumbledore’ll be furious; it took months to find those ‘wolves and get accepted,” Remus said.

“Then why’d you do it?” Sirius asked softly.

“Couldn’t leave him there,” Remus confided in an almost-whisper, “he reminded me too much of a certain uppity pureblood who turned out not too bad.”

#

Waking up after the best night’s sleep he’d had in the months since he’d ran from Hogwarts, Draco padded downstairs in his barefeet, the floorboards were freezing cold and he could feel the chill spreading through his body from the tips of his toes but the smell of bacon and coffee drove him on; he followed his nose and the noise of early morning chatter to the kitchen. As the warmth of the kitchen hit him, his stomach dropped away at the sight of a sea of ginger Weasleys spread around the large kitchen table. There was more of them than he’d ever seen in one place. As he looked around at the familiar faces – all of whom, he had no doubt, would be willing and eager to jinx him into next week – the room fell silent. Lupin, the only person who had been remotely civil to him, was nowhere to be seen. One by one heads turned to face him, as the last one turned to look at him – green eyes under a mess of black hair – Draco stepped back out of the kitchen and turned to run.

A strong arm wrapped around Draco’s shoulders before he could get away and his terrified, shivering body was dragged back into the warmth of the kitchen. “Everyone,” Sirius commanded his silent audience, “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Draco,” Sirius pulled the boy a little tighter in his one-armed hug, “he'll be staying here for a bit.” The silence continued for much longer than was comfortable, it seemed to chill the temperature of the room by a good few degrees, before a chair scraped noisily across the floor. Draco braced himself for the inevitable: an insult, a punch, a hex.

It didn’t come.

“Harry,” Harry firmly shook Draco’s pale, clammy hand, “Harry Potter, pleased to meet you, Draco.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
